


In Transit

by ghosty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Fix-It, Multiple Universes Colliding, Timeline What Timeline, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosty/pseuds/ghosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Lalonde is on a purple moon, heading to her death towards a green sun. But such matters are never that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Transit

**Author's Note:**

> GOD WOW I HAVE... POURED MY LIFE BLOOD INTO THIS. WOW. WOW. okay. i sat down for about three/four hours and just WROTE this, and there was just... more... and more... and more... and when i was done I had like 4,000 words. then i edited it. and i had ~4,500. HOW. THE. FUCK. EVEN. lmfao and FORMATTING this PIECE OF SHIT has literally taken me more time than it did to write it, i am ready to piss blood and drink it...... anyway.  
>    
> my playlist for this was mainly Nightmare of You (PERFECT BAND BEST ALBUM) ([D Minor](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVYKIOJ-SPE), [I Want To Be Buried In Your Backyard](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1HctfS-H0M), [In The Bathroom Is Where I Want You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FtUYw6PDlo), [I Was Never A Normal Boy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hag0cE-wfkw)) and then [Straight Heat]() by edIT and of course, [Derse Dreamers](http://homestuck.bandcamp.com/track/derse-dreamers).
> 
> okay enough dilly-dallying!!!

  
TG: so then  
TG: the moon started drifting away  
TG: and i was going to fly up  
TG: and take it to the sun  
TG: and i said something to you  
TG: or i was going to  
TG: like say bye or something  
TG: but you were just standing there not saying anything  
TG: holding that ball of yarn  
TG: and then

  
TG: oh

\---

You are on the moon. You are finally the angel of space, though more commonly known as the Seer of Light, but the way the hollow wind is gusting through your wispy hair and making the air feel surreally light, is possibly something like having wings.

Only, you wish that this was not leading to your death.

But _perhaps_ you shouldn't think that (yet). You know it's entirely understandable that you _are_ thinking that, and anyone in your situation would wish for that _at least_ microscopically. Even though you're brimming over with a silenced, controlled fear, and even if you _are_ standing very still at your dark lavender window, you numbly, stupidly lift up your arms, spreading your wings wide, because you are alone and about to die, and you can pretend to be flying if you want to.

Still hypothetically soaring, you gaze with trepidation into the blackness outside your window that pinpoints a small speck of lime in the distance. You are now a terminal angel of space, living out your final twinklings of life on your own, private moon. Not many people say they get to die like this, you know. The thought provides little comfort.

Nevertheless, in the space between your thoughts of dread and fatality, there are bursts of a swelling euphoria, because you _are_ flying, and you are flying among heavenly bodies. The cosmos is utterly resplendent. Even at the end of the end, when you are no longer flesh, but instead moments and eternities from losing everything you have ever known, from your memories to your bones, and the thorns that pierce your chest are quelled a little with the knowledge that even if you are gone forever and won't ever get to see these stars and their black canvas ever, ever, ever again... it will always be there for everyone else. Everyone who comes after you. All the people you have saved! You're doing them a great kindness.  
  
Tears well to your eyes anyway.

Melancholy ( _you're going to die soon_ ).  
Joy ( _you're on the moon_ ).  
Melancholy ( _soon_ ).  
Joy ( _moon._ )

~~TG: could you just please turn the thing around and come back~~

And there is misery.

Your eyes narrow and your jaw sets a harder and your fingers curl against the windowsill, and you're not staring out at the universe anymore; you're spacing out and seeing some sort of silent film in your head that is tinged with heat and clockwork and a black expanse. The problem with space, you decide with a strangely wistful expression, is that the never-ending atrament is too similar to something else you knew, a something that you knew well.

And in the back — or, perhaps front — of your mind is an echo of a voice that should have been calm and low and collected, but it is so strangled now that it makes you want to be sick.

That was the real horror — space, sunglasses, vintage red, and all the things they stood for. Your concept of time was fading fast, hours and seconds beginning to feel interchangeable the closer you got to the green speck. Things felt fake. That little ticking presence that fit so snugly in your thoughts, the keyhole that let you See, felt like it was becoming overwhelming, bit by bit. It wouldn't be strange to assume that the sun was so powerful that its radiation could consume you merely with its proximity. But it did not fade, not even for a second.

 _And_ , you thought, dry as a drought, that was exactly what it felt like when your eyes gazed into a certain pair of aviators.

But you frowned and shut your eyes, heart unable to go on scrutinizing out the window. There is more melancholy. You are going to miss him so badly. You are going to miss _everyone_ , but nobody's words will ever stab you in the piercing heart and lungs like that detestable, impeccable—

TT: What do you think?  
TG: stop it

Heat builds dangerously at the corners of your eyes and you squeeze them shut tighter. Your nails are digging into the wood grains but it doesn't hurt, you cannot feel the tangible pain of it.

So for just another second, you glance out the window. And the speck is becoming dot-sized. And the nausea in your chest becomes atrophic, and that is when the Sight sets in.

TT: Maybe I just thought some company would be nice.

\---

"Damn, Lalonde, are you just going to fucking stare at me or are you going to grace me with some unquestionably genius tactics."

"Oh? My apologies, I did not know making eye contact made you uneasy. I'll make sure to do it more often."

"Yeah just keep on spouting shit, you are the smartest cookie, it's you. Looking forward to the day you comprehend your own psychobabble and admit yourself, Freud."

"I'm sure."

He looks so tarnished, yet so statuesque, wearing only a crimson tank and frayed shorts in the unforgiving heat, and the sunlight is glaring off of his glasses like a sunspot in a galaxy. He's staring, or scowling more-so, right back at you, mouth ticked in just the barest hint of a frown as your perfectly manicured finger rolls a bishop in circles on a marble chess board. The sunshine is baking down on his skin, which is freckling even more, and the breeze gently tosses his hair back out of his face, and yours in yours.

A smile slides smoothly onto your lips as you put up a hand to comb your tendrils back, and he quips, coolly annoyed, "I'm such a fucking comedian, aren't I."

You nod enthusiastically and sarcastically as you opt to take one of his pawns. His expression is unreadable.

Something about this picturesque scene feels foreign to you, though, and it's the only thing that's stopping you from not taking the game seriously. The trees that surround your expansive home and yard are all rustling comfortingly in the wind, the jays and mockingbirds are chirping and singing far-off amongst their boughs, dragonflies hover, the sky is a perfect blue with majestic billowing clouds, and your heart beats quick and soothingly in your ears.

Dave came to visit you this summer, for once. Bro had every reservation in the world, but your mother was surprisingly placid about the entire thing and within a week you had an email giving dates, times, and flight numbers for one DAVE STRIDER from Houston to Plattsburgh. You were both fifteen, and responsible, and nobody had been intrusive at all. Mom had kept the house stuffed with every assortment of food and every room completely spotless, and politely conversed with Dave; Bro made him call when he landed, and they'd texted now and then. Apart from that, you both had been left to yourselves, and here you were having a rousing round of chess that you were dominating.

A wave of disappointment crept up on your blissful bubble of happiness, whitewashing it somehow, and you could not shake that small feeling that this shouldn't be happening.

It was the most ungrateful and unsatisfying thought to think. Dave was incredibly... well... lovely? Charming. And it was so unexpected, how his personality and appearance and the whole package of him exceeded your expectations in the most heart-aching way. And Dave, with his quiet, poignant voice, filled with dust but also heat, made him more alluring, and the way he tried _so hard_ to smother a classic southern accent that came out whenever he got _just_ irritated enough. You knew you were missing something, though, because it slipped other times, too, you see, that you couldn't place why — like at the airport. You had come inside the terminal with your clicking heels mother at your side, and you were nervous but silently repressing it and putting all of your thoughts into appearing classy and sophisticated and placid but there he was, leaned against the wall with his bags by his side and his iPhone in his hand, looking completely uninterested but yet somehow like a famous model in a commercial. The rug swept out from under your feet; he had accomplished the same tactics, and your heart slammed into your mouth and your stomach seemed to shudder simultaneously and he looked up at you and that was the first time you felt the disorienting and powerful feeling of your concept of time fading fast, hours and seconds becoming interchangeable, surreal, that little tic̡̱͙̪̹̺ͪ̑̈́ͨ̉ͦķ̟̫͖̳̦̠̈́ͅi͙͕̞̖̰̠̙̔n͓̰̼̘̠̓̄̂̾ͦ̃́g͕̦ͨ̂ͮͦ̈͊͒ ̳͖͎͎͈͂ͅp͍̼ͮͩ̂ͅr͇̰̱̥̝ͮe͈̫ͤ̌̃s̗̲̗̘̄͆ͩ̉̑͋̎e̵̺͆ͭͫ̌̄ͯn͍̬̠͎̲͎̫̓c̘͙͓ͣ̒͛̃̀ͭe̶̻͉̩̊ͯ͛ͣ ̝̺̹ͬ̑̿̒̑ͯ̑ͅt̤̟̺̤͈͑ͥ̊̑h͋̒ͬ͏̘̙̳̩a͔̯͉ͬͥͩ̐͒ͯ̂ͅt̶͔̗͈̦̞͐ͮͨ ̮̂̉͛ͮ̌̏̿f͒̂ͭ̓̃i͖̙̮͓̙͙̇̏͒ͫͤͥẗ̯́̈͂̅ͬ̎̃ ̯̱̗s̪ͩ̿̄̇͡ö̸͓̤̼͓̦͕̬́͋̑́̆͌͂ ͏̥̯̻͍s͇͕̱̫n̸͐̄ů̬̞̞̯̄ͯ̈́g͔̦̼̰͖̟l̞͖̲̻̺ͦ̈̏ͯͯ͋͢y͚͕̭̜̍̔͟ ͉̤̜̺ͭi͋̿̓̿̃̾̌n̦͇͖̬̅̄͋ ͙̲̖̭͟y̠͚ͅo̭̒ͫ̃ͬǘ̷ͦͤr̷̥̩̥̹͑̉ͮ̾ͩ t̛̩̼̗̜̳̓͆ͧ͗h͇̻͙̞̱̏̿ͮͦ̈́o̩͓ͫ͋͟ů̯̩ͥ͒ͣ̕͠͞gͯ҉̠̻̟̜̝̀h̭͚̮̮̔͑̇̽̓͂ͥ̎̋t̷̡̲͍̮̹͊́s͕̭̈͑̈̆ͬ͜͜,̧̣̘̭̠̱̥͖̪̉̈̃̈̔̋͂͂ͭ͞ ̻̺̉̄̉̉ͧ̌̿̂t̵̤͖͚̳̤̖̽͋̀̂̀̉̍̕h̴̦̻̐ͨͦͮ̇̔̚e̶̝̹̱͓̋̈͛̽̄̂̐̿ͣ̕ ̷̴̲͉͓͔̜̉̃k̨͍̗̜̪͔̃ͭͭ̏̐̑͐ͅͅẽ̷̝̦͋͘y̟̭̓̀ͮ̆ͮ̚h̷̸̢̪̖̻̻͑̈́ͫ̚ǒ̡͔͈͙̅l̈ͧ̇̀͊̏͠͏͈͇̰e̡̩̞̼̜͗͗ ̯̻ͣ̋̎ͣ̔ͨt̴̩̜̖ͫ̏͒̑ͥ͒͡h̸͇̭͓͕̬̞̉̔̃ä̢̹̳̥͔̱͓́ͬͩͬ̋ͨt̸̥̙͍̤̿ͫ͟ ̴̹̺̤̣̯̳̜̃͛ͬ́ͦ̑̍l̵͎̩̲͌̓ͦ̇ͨ̎̔͋ͧe̶̦̘͕̟̯̯̮͍͂ͩ̽̽t̴̥̭̭ͩͪͮ̄ͯ̎̄ ̨̫͉̦̪̦̝̺̌͠ͅy͓ͫ̊͘͘o̧̱̼͑ͬ̽u̇͂̇̿ͭ̽̕͏̯̗̰̺͠ ̵̟̫̹̑̽ͮ̆̀̎̑̚S̵̹̩̠̤͉̻͇̰͆̑̿ͩͅê͕̣̘̗̦̽̌ͮͫ̊̓ę̧̞̹͚̪̃̐̍ͮ̓́̐͘,̢͙̼͇̦̟̹̥̌͐̾̀̚͠ ̸͓̠̼̦̱̫̗̠̈bͮ͂̔̿̍̾ͥ̚͏̨̩͈͍̺̣̹̖ě̋͊͒ͫͫͭ̃͏̖̮̟̝͎͇͇͢c̷̪͇͉̹̒͑ͧo̷͇̤̦̳̒ͦ̀ͥ̋̀ͭ̈́̔͠ͅm͊҉̵̲̫̠̜̥̥͕̙̀ǐ̵̧͚̳͚̜̓̓̿͗̀n̨̽ͧͅͅg̶̶̞̲̻̼̼͖ͨ̒̊̏ͯ̇ͯ͒ ͖͓̬̰̞̩͉ͣ̆͛̿̕ ̢̈́̈́͏̫̲̩̖͈̫̰ ó͖̰͎̮̻͔̭̱̎͊̂͗ͭ̓̃̒ͬ̊ͥͦͭ͡͠vͬͨ͐ͩ̄ͪ̋ͤ͌̆ͪ͂ͮ̓̅͏̵̷̗̤͖̠̫͕̫͙͚̪̩ẹ̴̢̛̩͙̪̗̗̤̇̾͋ͯ͋͐ͯ͌̿̈ͨͯͮͤ̂̚̕̕r̺̜̦̼͙̙̬̿ͩͬ̄̌͛͋͌̚̚͝͠w̵̢̼͉̩̬̖̦̞̪͂͌ͩ̽́̎ͩͮͣ̂͂̈͂̔̚͜ͅḩ̵̷̫̱̼͖̜̻ͦͤ͌͋ͪ̒ͨ̑̅e̵͛ͩ̿͌̚҉̶̖̖̻̫̜̲͙͖̺̳̞̼̝͠ͅļ̢̛̖̦͙̱̗̝͙̦̑̽ͥͣ̀ͬ̐̉̽ͧͩ̓ͨͨ͢͞m̸̶̷̢̩̮̲̙̜͍̌̌̑͗͑̓ͪ͌͂̌̆͝i̺̜͇̹̲͓̗̞͇̹͉̭̥̼̗͓̮̝͈ͫ̆ͬ̑ͤ͆̕͢n̡̛͑̅ͧͭͥ̐ͮ̀̒͂ͬ͏̲͙̖͔̦g̶̩̼͓̦̩̠͉͍͚̜̤̟̭ͯ́ͬ̓̅̀ͧͦͮ̊̍͛̋̀,̸̵̧͕̲̰͇͕͉̪̫͎̙͆ͭ̾̋̿̒ͫ̅͡ ̶̷̙̥̗͖̠̝̥̟͈͎͈͇͓͓̬̹̺͔̻̈́̉ͫ̍̽̓͑̒̈̿̇̌ͫ̈̉ͤ̀͡b̛́̽̌̈̊͒̀͘͏̠͈͈͔i̡̡ͬͤͬͮ̀̽̈́͐̽̒̀͛̐ͦ̐̀͡͏͈͇̲̼͔̮̞͔̟̘̜͙̟̗̫t̅͂͒̓͏̧̲̙͓̘̥̟̲̕ ̴̴̵̛̞͍̺̝͙̗̮̖̭͎̙̯̗̱ͮ̓̐ͩͦ͋̍̀̌ͧͫ̊̿ͯͫ̏̉ͥ͘ͅb̡̧̹̼̩͛͛̃͛͗̂͌ͤ͑ͤ̓̆͐ͬ̎͞ͅy̵̵͂̑͛͆͋ͣͫ̄̈͒̆͂̃̓̿͆͒͏̥͍̥̙̭̪͇͙̼̼̩̙͕̲͟ ̶̷̈́̇͗͌ͪ̈́̑ͥ̏ͦ̄̓͛̓̔̚҉̖̬͙͙̜b̸̻̹̻͎̫̰̖̺̦̺̬̞͖͕̔̈́̅̍̄ͫ̆̊͌͗ͩ̕͜͞͠i̡̛̛̇̍̀ͪͭͣ̎̐̽҉̗̪̼̩͎͔̜͍̺̠͎ͅt̿́ͧͭ̔ͥ̚҉̸̦͙͉͔̥̮͈̘̹̱̣̻̹̥̲̫͈̮͟͟͝—

\---

"Hey."

"Hello."

"I'm in Manhattan tonight." Pause. "You still live there, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Pause. "I have a set. Fat Black Pussycat, I'm starting at ten." Longer pause. "Can you come?"

"Yes."

A nearly volumeless exhale comes from his end. Maybe.

"Okay. Thanks, Rose." Pause.

"Mmm."

"...Later."

The dial tone is grating and yet the sound of his voice speaking your name hangs in the air, making you unable to put down the phone.

After shaking, vomiting, pacing the apartment, waiting several hours, you finally bring yourself to get ready. You owned several black dresses, thankfully, and opted for one that was loose and draping and small, covering in tiny, near-invisible beading, with matching matte pumps and smokey eyes and nude lipstick. Time passed too quickly. Soon you are smoothly paying an employee and receiving a legal drinking age stamp of a very packed, Middle Eastern themed club. Except you're not. When the woman looks at your ID, she pulls out the VIP stamp instead (no charge) and smiles graciously and you want to die, but give her a flat, polite smile in return, and continue walking.

At the front of the club are all sophisticated, lounging groups and couples, sipping on martinis and cocktails, but your destination lies in the back where you can just barely pick out a dull thumping. It's 9:45 p.m. and you feel light headed and stagnant.

Before you enter the room that will be filled with sweaty dancing people and lights that could give a girl vertigo, you show your stamped hand to a bartender and order a White Lightning. Drink in hand, half of it is gone when you reach the room a minute later.

The wait until he walks on the stage is long and excruciating, and you finish your vodka martini reluctantly, contemplating going to get a second one, when the music suddenly stops and a voice comes on over the crowd: "LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, CAN I GET A ROUSING ROUND FOR... _DJ TURNTECH_!"

The crowd erupts, and you're sure no-one has ever heard of him. Most of the lights go off, but the ones that stay on are a sharp red — his arrogant trademark — and out of the darkness walks the boy that ~~broke your fucking heart~~ ~~had not spoken to you in two years~~ ~~looked so devastatingly good~~ would be designating music for the evening. His hair is slicked back and peppermint blond, his eyes are obscured behind a very expensive pair of tar black aviators, and his shirt is dark red, button-up, garnished with a black bow tie. His skinny jeans are black; his Converse are classic; his voice is as low and alluring as before, and all traces of his accent are finally gone.

"Thanks," he purrs into the microphone and with one swift jerk of his hand, beats come spilling out through the speakers and the lights die and then starburst into blinding colours, primarily chilling scarlet, though, and you can nearly taste with disgust the pheromones that have been born in the crowd.

You are one of the very, very, very few in the room who are standing off to the side, running your fingertip distractedly and tensely along the edge of your shaking, empty glass, expression blank. Dave is nodding his head, rocking it back and forth between his shoulders (you wonder if they are still freckled) with his fingertips pressing to his sleek headphones. The song is catchy, of course. It starts out quickly and slides in and out of a complicated breakbeat and then treads into something more drumstep flavoured. And you stand perfectly still.

The song lasts several minutes; your throat is tight and dry. You leave to get a second White Lightning.

The only thing that makes this bearable is his body language. Every atom in your body was screaming to either physically assault him in some manner or walk out and never look back, because waiting for something to happen was worse than agony. As long as you had something to distract you, to stop you from watching him, you could remain somewhat sane. You see, every set from then on, only you saw it — his little telltale signs that he was not entirely on his game tonight. He stops more than once to take off his headphones and put them back on, as if they were uncomfortable — he adjusts his glasses, as if they were too heavy — he bounces just a little when the more wicked, faster songs come on, as if he were anxious — he lifts his head every minute or so and scans the pulsating, dripping, drunk herd of the dancing masses, as if he was looking for someone.

Another White Lightning is ordered, and sipped on slowly. When you finish it and the alcohol sinks in, though, you finally shut your eyes and let yourself start swaying in time with the music, the dark fabric of your saddened dress swishing against your skin.

You were certain that you looked good. Delectable, even. You had been admired openly by many a man and woman's stares alike that evening. It was precisely that that truly encouraged you to leave.

It was _detestable_ how you and your cold, hard, calculating eloquence, you and your in-progress Masters of Psychology, were all failing you, betraying you, because more than anything, more than anything at all, you wanted Dave Strider to see you. God, how you utterly ached to see his black heart to jump into his throat and then fall dead at his feet. That was why you came, at first — or, so you thought. Bittersweet revenge.

...And yet you stood out of sight. And yet you had more than half a mind to leave. And yet, you did not.

You knew why, but that truth was undesirable and pathetic. More deeply than all of those things, you just wanted Dave to see you and be filled with two years worth of regret — no, no, a lifetime's. You wanted him to fall in love with you hard and fight with you passionately and bury you in bed sheets needingly and wake up to desperate, warm kisses and "fuck clothes" breakfast and nostalgic chess games and. And.

~~You wanted Dave Strider back.  
~~

_No!_

When you finally snapped out of your wistful reverie, you noticed that the DJ was no longer up front. Some bashful-looking kid with a mohawk and gauges had taken over, and the paralyzing fear that you were in a room with Dave Strider and you _did not know where he was_ set in like the panic plague.

Instantaneously you spun on your five inch heels, expression somewhat anxious as you combed the crowds. No luck. There was no other option: you had to leave. Now. There was nothing else you could do, because you couldn't see him, not now, not after so fucking long, you, y-you told him you'd come see him play but you didn't say a _word_ about meeting him, no, no, no, NO—

 

"Rose?"

 

—no.

You became a fear-paralyzed rabbit, breath trapped tight in your throat, and you turned your head just enough, slowly, to see the previous disc-spinner of the evening.

Dave Strider's aviators glittered with the lights of the room, but you palpably felt the burning touch of his gaze, tangible on your skin. You felt it start at your feet, and caress their way up your vulnerable legs, past your muted hipbones, 'round the supple turn of your breasts against the regrettably(?)  barely adequate dress, on to your smooth shoulders, and finally, finally, _finally_ , your face.

Unprecedented, he removed his shades, perfectly calm, and as you looked into poisonous-intense sangria, you felt the white lightning straight to the core.

"Lalonde," you corrected him tersely, recomposing yourself with a shaking breath afterwards. Your hands smoothed out your dress in a forced, idle way and awkwardly caught in the spiderweb beading as you looked at him disapprovingly from under your lashes, seductive and chilly. There had to be some way to regain control, but the fierce pace of your heart and the disorienting colors of the strobes and buzz of the alcohol and people and— 

His gaze narrowed at your words, but you couldn't tell if it was more cynical or amused.

"Lalonde, then." The name sounded so good from his mouth. "You grew your hair out."

Reflexively, you raised a hand to your cream hair. The bottom layer had indeed grown out a few inches, tapering against your neck in clutching wisps.

Eight-hundred thousand things crossed your mind to tell him. He still had freckles. His hair was cut, and styled a little differently, and it suited him. His glasses were new. He looked good in that shirt, and those jeans. He still smelled like smoky applewood, even though he didn't wear cologne at all, even though he was many inches away and there were so many other people in the surrounding space. He was still capable of making you love him with a single word. He would devastate you.

"I'm glad you came," he said, and to anyone else it would have sounded totally insincere, but you caught the smallest tinge of a Texan accent and knew, suddenly knew, knew how much he meant it. Now, your knees begin to wobble. He was standing much closer somehow. Why? It explained why you could smell him in such a crowded room. His hands were tucked in his pockets and he absently tilted over you, eyes brazenly searching yours for any sort of reaction.

It was unquestionably harder than anything you'd ever done, to not let your own gaze shift weakly around the room, to anywhere but him, but you did it. You were shaking just a little, and your heart blared a highly sellable beat and you creased your brow and unwillingly tried to look uncaring as you said over the crowd, "It was a good show. The new songs are good."

The words were embarrassingly weak, as was the accidental admission of you being able to differentiate his new songs from the old ones, and both of you heard the tremble in your voice, but you bit your cheek and held onto the hopefully subtle-yet-caustic facade.

His mouth twitched up in the corner and he was closer, somehow, again, and you instinctively backed up. Fuck. Wrong move. He knew. That was bad. It was in his face, he knew you were being tortured, and he was both relieved and upset by this. That was worse. It meant he cared. It meant that he knew _you_ still cared. Problems: he was too beautiful, he would bring torture to your already bruised insides, he was too good, far too good. In a futile last resort, you desperately clung to the shredded memories of him telling you he was busy and he couldn't talk and he had _other shit to do_ apart from _visiting you_ , his _significant other_ , the only girl he'd allegedly _ever kissed_ , etcetera et ad nauseum.

You feet still tentatively carried you backwards, and when your back hit the wall, you crammed your eyes shut and wished you were anywhere but here.

When you were done thinking about that, you extended private gratitude towards the universe for having let you see him one last time.

"Lalonde," said Dave Strider, voice so close to cracking. "I missed you."

Your eyes opened.

"Rose." You softly corrected him.

He looked like he was about to scream or cry or perhaps kiss you or all three. His eyes were burning with emotion and you had never seen anything like it. His breathing seemed off and he leaned in so so so _so_ close _too_ close you remembered what it felt like to kiss him and how _long_ it had been.

His fingers curiously moved from the wall to your longer strands of hair, and you felt so weightless the instant his skin just barely skimmed your neck by accident and you were suddenly filled with dread in the space between your thoughts of dread, y̲͕̩̅̔ͩ̒ͨ̉ͅǒ̭͓͇ͫu̧̝̩̪̹̗ͣ͗ ̫̲̟ͩ̾͛̐͂ͤ̚h̰͉́ͨ͑̆ͬ̈́͛a͖̯̯̱̝͖͚̅v̄̎͋̅eͦͫͩ̇̈͝ ̣͊͂̎͝ͅb̨̦ͥͧͤͭͬu̸͖̖̠͊̑͛͛r̻̝͙̥͂̃͘ŝ̱ͤ̃̚ț̠͖̦̤̲̽̀͗̅s͎̘̦̘̯̒̐̃̋̅ ͔̖͎͙̬̻̜̈́͌̌̾ͦ̈́o̲̙͙̐̏́ͅf̶̼̯̦̼̲̦̺́͗̌ͥ ̷͖̘̯̼̙͉̣̇a̟͗̄͛͒͟ ͕͇̈ͫ͑͆s̵̼̙͖͖̩ͅw̖̖͓̖̲̆̂̎̓͊͢ͅe̱̩̫̩̐̿ͯ̚͜l̮̥̼̲͑̎̚l͙̟͚̳̏̓̑͛ḭ͐͢n̙̖̳̔̄̃͋g̗̭̊̇̋ͬ́ ͚̱͚͇̳͉̫̂͆̎̃ͨ͐͂ḫ̳̩͊̏â͖̞͎̼p̣̅ͣ́̉p̪̗̠̲͂ͭ̃̉̀ͬ̆͜ĩ̝̙̌͐̾̏̃̽n̡̼̦̺͍͖̮͎ͧͣe̘̝̎͂̓s̯͇̖̲s̜̺̭̟̖̤̳̽̒̈́ͯ̀,̺̯̳̫͗ ̪̹̞̰̻, t̮̣̹͇͆̉̍ͣ̽̉͗̿h̸̨͙̙̲̲̦̱ͦ͆e͎̳̟͖̮̼͗͗͛͌ͫn̸̞̩̖ͥͫ̿͠ ̶̩̯̘̩̐̌ͪ̆̍̓ͥ̚m̮̦̔̌ͫ́̀͝e̦͖͋̌̋̑l̢̳̥̦̫͊̾ȁͯ̍ͮͥ͛ͩ͜҉̣̹̫n͙̘̼̮̱̙̼̖̂ͮ͑͘͠c͕͙̠ͦͬ̆͟h̷̴̲͔̓ͧ͐̏̉͐͒o̝̤͓̅̽͐̀͠l͚̫͉͋ỳ͈̞̀͞ ( _you're going to die, soon_ ), joy ( _you're on the moon_ ), melancholy ( _soon_ )—

\---

Your breath came out in harsh, wet chokes and sobs, and you were on your knees, colours of the maroon and neon room swirling sickeningly around you. Tears came without any break or pause, flooding your white cheeks and turning them bitten pink and red, eyes puffy and stinging.

Those things weren't real. Those didn't happen. No, but, they _were_ in the most literal way and _could have been_. They could have been real. They were supposed to. No. Stop. Alternate timelines. Could haves. No Sburb? No. No. No. But this was the Sight at its best. That was it. Your powers were becoming overzealous, uninhibited; perhaps better said, you didn't _need_ an oracle now, because the Green Sun was amplifying your powers eightfold, twentyfold, a hundredfold, and you were going to be given the greatest gift of enlightenment, the most painful curse of purgatory until you were sent off into the licking green flames directly.

Death would have been easy. Dying, however, was now a different matter entirely.

\---

TG: this isnt right

\---

"One, two, three, go."

Your fingers precisely and fluidly pressed onto the strings and with perfect posture, you began playing a piece you yourself had composed, careful not to breathe too loudly. This lasted a minute or so, and then Dave gave you the cue and you stopped.

He had wanted you to record a song with him, and here you were. It was a very flattering, and unexpected gesture.

"That was basically perfect," he said with a crooked half-smile, and you modestly returned it.

"Thank you, Strider."

The final piece, he decided, would be called Derse Dreamers. Derse was something he had dreamt of — that was how the song came to him.

Derse had a moon, too, he said. And you are on the mo͖̠̦͎ͤͥö̠͍̯̝ͭ̓ͭͅn̡̯̪̰͖̙͔̫ͣ̋̏͒̀ͧ—

\---

It's pouring rain. It hasn't rained this hard in Houston in ages and you keep staring out the window every ten seconds, filled thick with worry. Where is Dave? He should've been home by now. He was always on time, this was bad. Your grimacing expression drifted towards the counter where your cell phone lay, contemplating retrieving it and calling him.

But, a cherry red BMW pulls into the driveway. It takes everything in you to not run outside to see him. It takes ages for him to get to the door, and when he finally walks into the house, dripping and looking sour about it as he quips a quiet "sorry it's so late", that is when you stride meaningfully into his soaking wet embrace, holding him tightly because you have an unfounded, creeping apprehension that you'll never see him again.

He seems confused by this, but of course wraps his arms around you and places his kiss right on the crown of your head, muffling a, "Jesus, Lalonde." With an added, "...I missed you too."

Your mouth not-quite upturned against his shoulder, hands still awkwardly gripping his white suit jacket. At the window, when you had gotten scared that he was dead, you gripped the sill.

"Dave. I don't feel particularly well."

"What's wrong, Rose?"

Your nails are digging into the wood grains and it doesn't hurt, you c̮̹͈͈̋a̶̦̦̘͎͎̱̗͊n̛̜̜̳͓̰̹͍͋̈́͒̐ͣ̓n͊ͅo̷̝̯t̫̭͍͎͌ͪ͡ ̘͇͓̣̱̘̒͡f͉͒e̠̜͕͕͕̗͙ͭ͆ẽ͔̯̘͗ͨ̔l̀͠ the p͒ͨͧͭͯ̒̿͏̡́҉͚̰̲̪̜̩̩͕̫͓͕̩̬̬̬̪̣̤ḣ̶̷̠̱̣̝̺̰̯̭̄ͦ͒̔̕͟͝y̷̸̶̰̱̱͔̣͎̹̰̪͊ͮ̇ͮ̓̈́͊ͦͣͨͩͮ͒ͦ́̾̓̀̚͡ş̄́͑̉͛̋̔͆̉̕͜͏̨̬͕͔̤̺͕̟i̧̻̼̮͓̰̼̣̙̾ͤͣ͒͂ͯͦͮ̅ͮͧ̋̕͝c̡͈̺͉̺̪͈͉̘̘̙͙͉̹̫̔̓͑͐ͦͧ͊ͭ̚͟ȧ̴̶̳̘̥͍̿̆̎ͦͯ̿̀͡l̸̨̫̠͓͙͓͈̫̳͇̳͉̇ͥ̓ͪͨ͐ͫ̌̃͋ͤ̈́̿́͂ͧ͐́̚̕ͅ ̴̛̛̗̠̻̻̯͇͔̞̱̓ͨ̑̊̒̎͐̐̑ͥ̊̏͟͝p̴̡̩̺̲̭̹̪͎̪͖̪͓̞̿̃̈̀̉̊̂ͤ́̐ͮ̚͘å̢͙͕̳̥̣̞̠͈̯̯̩̹̦̺̭͈̤͉͐̀͌͗̄͋͂̚̚͞i̢̧̟̣̻͈ͦ͂̂̔̈ͦ̋̇̿ͨ͑ͥ̋̓̌́̀̚͞n̢͙͙̦̘̤̭̪̦͓̱̂͌̾ͭͫ͆̅̇̊͗͡—

\---

"It's simple, children used to learn this two hundred years ago," you dryly coaxed him on. "Or are you... dare I say it... _frightened_?"

Dave made a sound of derision and with more power than necessary, clamped a hand on your hip and took your smaller hand in his other.

"Waltz, Lalonde," he commanded.

You fumbled only for a breathless second to press the play button on the stereo's remote, and then he lithely led you around the room. You were impressed with how smoothly he stepped, his perfect posture; he was confident. However, he was entirely silent, and he refused to look at you.

And the song ended; and he had erred once through its entirety.

You'd only met him twice, but you felt the depraved sensation of honey in your heartstrings that said you could learn to love him.

"That was highly commendable," you praised him genuinely, quietly. He grunted, apathetic, which you supposed was good, so you added dryly, "Shall we try a tango?"

 _That_ made him look at you. That was when he finally took those asphalt, obscuring aviators off and placed them on the stereo's table and strode back to you purposefully, something mischievous in his claret eyes.

"Do you trust me?" His voice was too velvet and you were wary of him, but the answer was already leaving your lips.

"Yes."

In a sudden, perfect moment, your hips, your stomach, were pressed to his and your hand was back in his own, the other twined tightly around your waist as he dipped you perilously backwards. His face was the smallest inch from yours as he smirked crookedly and whispered onto your mouth.

"Hit play."

\---

"Rose. I'm sorry."

Pause.

"I lo—..." Pause. "I'll see you later. I have to go."

Pause.

"Bye."

Dial tone.

\---

"Dave?"

"Yes, Lalonde?" Exasperation. He looked up from his plane ticket expectantly. Your mother was waiting in the car — for once, she let you walk into the airport with him. Alone.

"I love you."

Dave Strider stood perfectly still. Then he smiled.

\---

You were on the ground, still, shaking like a leaf in a cold breeze. Your sobs were silent now, and every vision of the dead future, the Things That Could Have Been, filled you like asphalt; an unending ocean of desolation.

Crawling, you pulled yourself to the window, trembling and too weak to stand, body still wracking with emotional and mental duress.

The Green Sun glowed intensely, probably minutes away, whatever a minute was anymore. It was taking up the entire view now, and somehow, not hot at all.

The air here was completely stagnant and pressurized. You were flying, still, but it didn't feel like it. You couldn't feel much of anything, apart from a crippling desperation to sleep and never wake up or never think or feel again, and for the first time, there was a contented warmth in your bones to know that death would be soon coming.

\---

"Lalonde."

\---

_"Lalonde."_

\---

TG: but i dont want you to die

\---

You blinked through your painful, stinging eyes, sore from crying, and covered your mouth in disbelief when you heard a thudding noise and saw the cause.

"Dave," you choked out. Finally. You were dead. The game was resetting. Your mind ached with the Sight trying to explode and cannibalize you, but you held tight to reality (or what was left of it). The heatless sun had frozen the entire room, and you hung in between space and time and dimensions and the shuddering universe. But as one final reward, you were given Dave Strider, and you have never been more relieved.

He looked visibly shaken, though, which was strange, and you unthinkingly reached out and your body followed until you were embracing him, something you'd never done. There were no consequences now. You did not have to play doctor over every word and movement you made.

"Dave," you tasted the word slowly. "Am I asleep or dead, Dave?"

He pried you away from him and looked you in the eye, eyes furrowed miserably.

"I don't know."

"Try to remember."

 

Maybe you won the game. Just you.

\---

The moon had stopped, aided by a very strong gust of wind, the most powerful one ever, actually — The Vast Breath.

In the same pocket of bubbled alterspace where the wind was coming from a boy, a second boy had jumped into the gale and tumbled perilously into the room through the window, nearly knocking you to the floor, but managing to avoid you at the last second.

\---

TG: will that make you happy  
TT: More than you know.

\---

Now Dave held you snug against him, and he turned towards the window urgently before bellowing as loudly as he could, " _NOW_ , JADE!"

He glimpsed at you, and he was not cool and collected.

And then Dave Strider kissed you, quick and rough and then.

Then the cosmos that had been keeping you suffocated and safe and warm consumed you.

\---

EB: hey rose! i know you're not awake yet, but i just wanted to rub in your face that we, er, jade saved the day and you did not.  
EB: hahaha, just kidding, that was pretty rude........ but listen, you're my friend, and i love you, in the friend way. and don't go trying to die ever again! that shit isn't cool.  
EB: and friends don't let friends fly moons into green suns!!  
EB: er, but i guess we let you make them, hahaha

\---

GG: rose!!!!!!!  
GG: :(  
GG: don't you ever ever ever ever do that again!!  
GG: suicide is NOT the answer! we all love you so much and you are talented and smart and one of my best friends  
GG: but just in case you do.....  
GG: just remember i will save you every time, because i can do that now >:)  
GG: so no more tricky things!!  
GG: <333

\---

TG: okay listen up you piece of shit  
TG: i swear to god if you ever pull that again  
TG: i will fucking just  
TG: just  
TG: okay  
TG: lalonde just dont.  
TG: dont do that to me ever again  
TG: you are worth more than any fucking piece of machinery i will ever own any beat i will ever produce and listen to me spout shit like some sappy fag in a romcom im not going to spell this out for you any clearer than this  
TG: you are the only person i will ever put up with  
TG: and i dont want you to die  
TG: ok  
TG: im done  
TG: i have filled my unironic bullshit quota for the day  
TG: ........  
TG: okay

**\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 10:12 --**

\---

**== > Rose: Ascend.**


End file.
